Ray, Helena - Taste of Pride [The Pride of Savage Valley, Colorado 2] (Siren Publishing Ménage Everlasting)

by Helena Ray

  “So were you serious about wanting some white lightning?”

  Ezra’s question shattered the invisible force holding Marta and Mel. She felt herself blush, a rare occurrence. Something about the men in Savage Valley completely transformed her behavior around the opposite sex.

  She would have sworn she saw a faint pink tint to Mel’s cheeks, but he turned away before she could confirm her suspicion.

  “Well, do you?” he asked, turning back to her, mischief glowing in his expression.

  “You never forget your first.” Cleve put an arm around her shoulder and held up his bottle. It swished, indicating only a few drops left in brown bottle.

  “A fifth, Cleve, really? You two finished a fifth?”

  “Hey, we can always make more.”

  Mel gestured to Marta. “But the lady wants the ’shine now.” He caught her eye and gave a small nod. She caught on to the conspiratorial gesture.

  “Oh yes,” she started, “I want some of the schlump…dump…what did you call it again?”

  “Stumphole!” Cleve and Ezra exclaimed in unison. Cleve released his grip on her and joined his brother in a near sprint up Treaty Lane toward the mountains.

  Mel laughed as he watched them run. “Looks like they’re not too worried about salvaging parts from the still.” He turned back to Marta. “Why don’t you go ditch the bunny slippers and we’ll head on over to stumphole world headquarters.”

  * * * *

  The fumes from the brown glass bottle she held in her hands burned her nostrils, and Marta had to shake her head to clear it. Damn, she already had a buzz, and she hadn’t even tasted Mel and the Yeatses’ concoction yet.

  “You said you wanted to,” Mel reminded her with a laugh in his voice.

  “This is a good batch, too.” Ezra sat on a wooden barrel across from the one Marta perched on. They had walked to the northwest corner of Savage Valley, at the intersection of Treaty Lane and Creek Road, and were in the middle of a ramshackle industrial building.

  “I don’t know how you can tell good rubbing alcohol from bad rubbing alcohol.” She swished the liquid in the bottle again.

  “You’ll never know if you just stare at.” Mel’s eyes glowed even in the darkness of the warehouse. Only a few clerestory windows near the roof allowed the last embers of dusk’s glow to shine into the warehouse space. Mel stood and crossed behind Marta. She felt his hair brush against her shoulder and then his hot breath on her neck as he spoke softly. “You can certainly talk the talk…”

  Oh, hell no. No one would accuse Marta of chickening out on anything.

  “Here goes nothing,” she muttered and brought the bottle to her lips. She took a deep swig and, before she could register what had happened, felt a sizzling burn in her mouth. The burning crept down her throat and then her esophagus as the liquid fire branded itself into her insides. Marta registered a faint doughy taste before the effects of the liquor really hit her.

  She swayed a bit on her barrel, and Mel wrapped his arms around her to hold her in place. Emboldened by the alcohol, she rested her head on his chest. He stilled for a moment before relaxing and brushing a wayward strand of hair from her face.

  “Gentlemen, I think our novice has just imbibed her first sip of the ’shine.” He set her upright on the stool, and she shook her head clear.

  “Woo!” Marta shot the men her best smug smile at their disbelieving looks. “What, didn’t think a lady could hold her moonshine?”

  “That’s yet to be seen,” Ezra said as he took the bottle from her hand. He took a sip and let out a satisfied sigh. “The nose on this batch is particularly oaky. Wouldn’t you say so, Cleve?”

  “Yes, almost with a hint of a cigar box.” The two brothers burst into laughter as Mel took a seat on the barrel next to Marta.

  “Hey, pass the bottle.” Ezra handed the bottle to Mel, and he took a long drink of what Marta strongly suspected was rocket fuel. “Glad to see you could back up your claims.”

  “I told you bourbon’s my drink.”

  Mel lifted one eyebrow. “This ain’t hardly bourbon, little lady,” he said with a feigned Southern accent.

  Marta let out a giggle at his impression. “You know what I mean.”

  “Do I?” He leaned in closer to her, and their knees touched.

  Marta looked into his eyes, tinted purple by the faint glow of twilight, and snaked her hand between them. “Well, I mean that…” She snatched the bottle from his lap and took another swig, this time prepared for the scorching trail down her esophagus.

  “You little minx.” Mel grabbed for the bottle as she finished her drink, but she held it over her head, out of his reach.

  “Don’t you dare! This one’s mine.” Her sense of victory was short-lived. Cleve snatched the bottle from her hand and took a swig. “Hey!” Mel laughed as Marta reached for the bottle, bobbling a little on her barrel.

  Mel hopped to his feet and wrapped a steadying arm around her waist. The warmth of the moonshine was erasing Marta’s inhibitions quickly, and she held his hand against her stomach, humming her appreciation for the gesture.

  “I take it you like the ’shine then,” he purred in her ear, and something at the top of her thighs tightened at his voice and the feel of his stubble on her neck.

  “Mmhmm.” She turned to him, their faces only inches apart. “’Snice.”

  He squeezed around her waist, drawing her to his chest, and the rumbling in his chest as he laughed echoed in her body, tightening her nipples and dampening her pussy. Marta loved the feeling, thrilled to be free of her judgments of her own action.

  Her eyes met Mel’s, and the depths of the orbs drew her forward, closer to his warm breath.

  “Hey, hot stuff.” Ezra’s voice sliced through another of their moments, snapping the tension. “We gotta get back to the Herald!”

  Mel shook his head as he clucked in an exaggerated show of disapproval. “Going to work drunk? Very bad form, boys.”

  “Don’t call us boys,” Cleve slurred.

  “Yeah, we’re only a year younger than you are.”

  “But inches shorter,” Mel said as he stood and removed his jacket.

  “Damn it, we can’t argue with that one.” Ezra snagged the bottle back from Cleve and headed toward the large sliding doors that marked the exit.

  “Come on,” Mel said as he extended his hand to Marta. She happily placed her hand in his and hopped off the barrel, stumbling less than she expected. “I’ll walk you home.”

  She looked up in his eyes, but they showed no hint of wariness or disapproval. Only acceptance and willingness burned in the icy depths. She looked around and saw that the warehouse was nearly pitch black, the illumination of dusk having completely disappeared. Mel led her through the warehouse, and although Marta had expected to trip over barrels and the industrial detritus that littered the floor, no such obstacle fell in their path.

  After somehow reaching the door without incident, the Yeatses—whom she had now come to know were twins—hauled open the sliding door, and a blast of chilly night air hit her skin. Still only clad in her pajama pants and a T-shirt—the twins had neglected to give her a chance to change—she shivered under its force.

  “Here,” Mel said softly from beside her. He released her hand, walked behind her, and draped his faded leather jacket over her shoulders. He rubbed her upper arms as she settled into the garment, still warmed from Mel’s body heat. His scent was embedded in every fiber, and Marta suddenly couldn’t distinguish whether her intoxication came from illegal grain liquor or the tangle of spicy aromas coming from the jacket and warm body beside her.

  They stepped outside, and only the nearly full moon illuminated the night. The twins hurried ahead of them then turned, walking backward as they spoke to Marta.

  “It was lovely meeting you.” Cleve nodded at Mel. “Especially for him.”

  “Seriously, though, if you need moonshine—”

  “Or an obit in the Savage Herald—” Ezra interr
upted his brother.

  “Just give us a call, pretty lady.”

  With a leering grin, the twins took off down a dirt path that deviated from the road and wound behind a seedy-looking motel at the top of the hill on Treaty Lane, just visible from Marta’s apartment.

  Marta looked up at Mel to ask where they were going, but he smiled down at her, his shaggy hair providing a curtain around his face, and her words caught in her throat. Instead, she contented herself with leaning her head against his shoulder. They started on the short walk along Treaty Lane back to her apartment. As they neared her apartment, he brushed the back of his hand against her knuckles, sending a delicious tingle down her spine. She returned the innocent touch, and he took her hand in his, entwining his fingers through hers.

  All too soon, they arrived at her apartment. He walked her to the door and held both her hands. Marta laughed inwardly at the cross between James Dean and Wally Cleaver standing before him, a rebel and the boy next door rolled into one.

  “Well, this is me,” she said unnecessarily.

  “Yes, it is.” He dropped one of her hands as he raised the other to his lips, all the while never breaking his scorching stare. “Good night, Marta,” he whispered against her knuckles.

  Emboldened, Marta took a step forward before he could release her hand. She tilted her face up to his, and he smiled and pressed his hand against the small of her back, flattening her against him. She felt a bulge against her stomach, and the evidence of his reciprocal excitement sent even more sparks flying through her body.

  He closed the space between their faces, and Marta closed her eyes, eagerly anticipating the taste of his mouth. Her taste never came. Instead, he halted just as their lips brushed.

  “Good night,” he whispered again, his hot breath shooting into her mouth.

  She couldn’t react as he placed another kiss on the back of her hand and walked away, throwing glances back at her over his shoulder.

  “Wait, Mel,” she called out when the power of speech returned to her. He stopped at the edge of the street and turned back to her. “You forgot your jacket.”

  “Keep it.”

  “Won’t you—”

  “I’ll get it when I see you again.”

  He turned and disappeared into the blackness of the night. Marta stood stock-still on the porch of the rundown fourplex. Slowly, she turned and fished her key from the pocket of her pajama pants. She closed the door softly and leaned her back against it.

  After a moment of silence, a high-pitched squeal escaped from her throat, the enduring sound of a woman in the throes of a new passion. Dancing to the small desk, she clicked the space bar on her laptop to start the music. Appropriately, Michael Bublé crooned from her computer, and his passionate voice perfectly scored her elevated mood. She collapsed onto her bed and let the sensations of the night wash over her—the fury, the curiosity, the excitement, the moonshine, the beginnings of something she wanted to see through.

  Her eyes drifted closed, and a fleeting thought passed through her head, reminding her she had work in the morning.

  A few sips of the so-called stumphole couldn’t get her that hungover, right?

  Chapter 4

  I really thought a few sips wouldn’t hurt?

  Marta slumped against one of Savage Hunger’s orange booths, physically depleted. Thank god she had passed out at around nine o’clock last night. Otherwise she never would have awoken for her eleven o’clock shift at the diner. The double shift nearly killed her, but the hard work had eased her hangover.

  While her physical condition dampened her spirits throughout the day, not even the worst morning-after blues could have dispelled her good mood. Her thoughts returned to Mel all day long, to his touch, to his lips feathering against hers, to his ice-blue eyes and lean, muscular body. She didn’t even know his last name, but his memory had spread over every moment of her day. Only thoughts of Sam and Phil served to drag her down a bit.

  Sam had been at the diner all day, a rare occurrence. They had met in the hall outside his office right before the dinner rush, and Marta could have sworn she felt something there, something real. He had asked how her day was going, and she had given a soft smile and a shrug in response. Nothing out of the ordinary, but as Marta had started to walk away, Sam rubbed between her shoulder blades. The relief on her muscles was exquisite, but his hand had wandered downward, shooting tension to other, more intimate parts of her anatomy. But just as the side of his palm had landed on the swell of her ass, he withdrew it and walked away abruptly, leaving Marta confused and more than a bit turned on.

  “Rough night at Letty’s?”

  Sam’s voice broke into her thoughts, and she looked up to see the imposing, devilishly handsome blond standing over her.

  “Where?”

  “Ah, that’s right. You probably haven’t made it out to Catdaddy’s yet. Letty, the owner, she’s a real hoot.” Sam took a seat across from her, kicking his long legs over the side of the booth as he leaned his back against the wall. “I’ll have to take you sometime.”

  He’ll have to take me sometime? That positively sounded like a plan for the future, an odd remark from someone who appeared to have studiedly avoided her for days. She looked around and saw that the diner was now empty save for the two of them.

  “Yes, you’ll have to.” Even with her thoughts of Mel, she couldn’t deny her attraction to Sam. Oh well, she thought. Being perpetually single has its perks. “But why do you think I was there?”

  Sam laughed and ran a hand through his thick blond hair. “I grew up in the service industry, beautiful. I know a hangover when I see one.”

  Oh, shit. She had forgotten he was her boss for a moment. Her stomach twisted, and she said a small prayer in hopes that he hadn’t cornered her alone in the diner to fire her.

  “I’m so sorry. I mean, I didn’t think that it affected my performance today, but…”

  The smile that broke over his face silenced her. The expression illuminated his handsome features, and his eyes crinkled, showing little lines that hinted at many such grins through the years.

  “I’m not here to fire you, Marta.” She blew out a breath of relief. “I’m here to see if you want a ride home. Chelsea said you were staying at Treaty and Kwitakusix?”

  “You talked to Chelsea?”

  “Well, yeah. That first day you came in here.” Sam looked at her as if the answer were obvious. Shocked at his recollection, Marta needed a moment to gather her thoughts. “It’s not far out of my way. I can take you by, no problem. I know that walk’s a monster if you’re not feeling so hot.” He swung his feet around so that he sat upright at the table and leaned closer to Marta. “And what sort of gentleman would I be if I let a lady walk home alone this late at night?”

  While Marta certainly appreciated the gesture, the feminist inside her had to protest.

  “I can take care of myself, I’ll have you know. Anyway, animal attacks won’t be a problem.”

  “Not a one since 1846.”

  “Right, so…” Marta shrugged, unable to verbally turn down his offer.

  “So you’re coming with me,” Sam finished. “I don’t doubt that you could handle yourself just fine, beautiful, but what if I’d like your company on my drive home?”

  Marta’s heart did a small flip at his words. He wanted her company! Her intuition hadn’t led her astray.

  “Well, in that case, if you insist, I’ll accompany you.”

  Sam shook his head at her exaggerated haughty intonation.

  “Come on, jokester. I need to lock up, and then we’ll get on our way.”

  Marta waited outside the diner as Sam locked up. The flickering neon sign clicked off, and a few moments later, Sam joined her. His hand rested on her back again as he guided her toward the parking lot and slid lower, exactly as it had earlier. This time, though, he didn’t withdraw his hand when it landed at the top of her ass. Instead, he kept it there as they walked to his white sedan and he unlocked the
car.

  He reached to open her door, but Marta was quicker and got to the handle first. Sam held his hands up and laughed, shaking his head. They rode in silence, the tension too thick to allow any conversation to pass through it. Marta studied the glowing dashboard as her heart raced.

  All too soon, Sam reached her apartment and pulled his car into the dirt parking lot next to it. He turned to her, and Marta nearly gasped at how classically handsome he looked in the low light. The shadows playing along the planes of his face made him look like a heroic figure from a Renaissance painting, distinguished and intent.

  She concentrated on his one hand that still rested on the steering wheel, his long fingers curling around the smooth ring.

  “Marta, I know I shouldn’t say this.” She looked into his eyes, expecting hesitance but not finding it there. He gulped, and the roaring of the engine only heightened the silence that followed his remark.

  “What is it?”

  He opened his mouth as if to speak and then closed it, looked down, and shook his head.

  “I’m your boss, I shouldn’t…” He looked back at Marta, and just enough light shown from the dashboard to illuminate the pleading expression in his eyes.

  “We’re not at Savage Hunger. You’re not my boss now.”

  “It could affect our professional relationship.” His voice had lost some of the determination it held, and Sam dropped his hand to the keys in the ignition.

  “We don’t have to let it.”

  He killed the engine.

  “You might start expecting your pick of shifts.”

  “I’ll behave.”

  The headlights flicked off.

  “The town gossips would have a field day.”

  “Let them.”

  With a click, Sam unfastened his seatbelt, and Marta followed suit.

  For a long moment, they held each other’s stares, only the moon’s glow casting light into the car.